


Grey Sea, Blue Sky

by fredbassett



Series: Black and Gold [4]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-17
Updated: 2019-04-17
Packaged: 2020-01-15 12:05:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18498607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fredbassett/pseuds/fredbassett
Summary: Mairon decides to enliven an otherwise dull sea journey.





	Grey Sea, Blue Sky

**Author's Note:**

  * For [liadtbunny (Liadt)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liadt/gifts).



Mairon watched as the sailors deftly coiled the ropes and the sails were unfurled to catch the window blowing from the land out to sea. Above the gulls whirled, their harsh cries filling the air.

The huge ship moved smoothly away from the quay, clearing the wide arms of the harbour, cutting through the waves with ease and soon the land was receding into the distance.

He stood at the stern, watching until all he could see was the grey sea merging with the cloudless blue sky. The wind had increased, powering the ship through the rolling waves. Around him, sailors and the king’s men went about their business doing whatever it was men did to crew such an enormous vessel. Mairon neither knew nor cared what tasks they were performing. He had a task of his own to discharge. He remained as still as a graven statue, clad only in a loose-fitting dove-grey shirt over black trousers tucked into low boots of supple black leather. His dark hair streamed behind him in the sea breeze. 

The wind was cold on his skin and he allowed it to raise goosebumps on his flesh and even let his current covering of flesh indulge in a shiver, knowing that Ar-Pharazôn’s eyes were on him, and had been for some time. For a moment he amused himself with the thought of doing something to cool the king’s ardour like throwing up over the side of the craft, but on balance he decided it would amuse him more to let the wretched man court him, even if Ar-Pharazôn hadn’t even realised yet that was what he was doing.

He could hear the king’s heavy footfall on the wooden deck but gave no sign that he knew exactly where Ar-Pharazôn was. A heartbeat later, a soft, deep red lambswool cloak settled around his shoulders, shielding him from the wind.

“You are cold, my lord Mairon,” Ar-Pharazôn said softly, standing so close that Mairon could feel the man’s breath on his cheek.

He turned slightly, eyes cast down so that Ar-Pharazôn got the full effect of long dark eyelashes against pale skin. “You do me too much honour, my lord king. What titles I had are gone now. I forsook all such when I knelt before you in surrender.”

“You will be treated honourably, I have given you my word on that.”

Mairon looked up, allowing warmth to bleed into his eyes, setting gold flecks dancing amongst the green. “I am grateful, Lord of Númenor. You are magnanimous in victory.”

“Let us take warm wine together in my quarters. You are pale with cold.”

Another artfully timed shiver ran through Mairon’s slender form.

Ar-Pharazôn slipped an arm around his shoulders and steered him to the door that led below deck to the king’s sumptuously appointed rooms. Servants hurried to bring a pitcher of wine that they poured into gold goblets studded with jewels. Ar-Pharazôn held one out to him. “Drink, it will bring warmth back to your body.”

Mairon could do that in an instant, if he so wished, but this was not the time for a demonstration of his powers. For now, he was the king’s humble servant, grateful for any largesse Ar-Pharazôn deigned to bestow.  
Ar-Pharazôn settled himself down on a long, well-upholstered window seat, looking out over the endless expanse of grey sea. He patted the patterned red fabric with one hand as a man would do when encouraging a lapdog to jump up to be petted. “Sit, let there be no ceremony between us.”

Mairon sat, allowing a slight smile to grace his lips. He waited until Ar-Pharazôn had drunk liberally of the wine before raising the goblet to his lips and taking a mouthful. It was good, he’d give the arrogant Númenorean bastard that. A heady brew, laced with spirits as well as herbs and spices. If he had need of such things, it would certainly have driven the cold from his body.

He leaned back, allowing the folds of the cloak to fall open, showing the dove-grey shirt, his pebbled nipples pressing against the linen, and just the slightest hint of dark hair on his chest showing at the open neck. He’d debated whether to adopt any body hair, but the intelligence he’d received on the Númenorean king had led him to believe that Ar-Pharazôn’s tastes ran to men, rather than women or hairless boys and so far, it certainly seemed that was the case,

Mairon was quite prepared to take his time reeling in his catch but from the look in the king’s hot eyes, Ar-Pharazôn might be intending to make a move sooner rather than later, which might enliven an otherwise dull sea journey.

As soon as the king had drained his goblet, he snapped his fingers and the servant that had been hovering discreetly at one side of the cabin hurried to do his bidding, topping up first Ar-Pharazôn’s goblet then Mairon’s. When he was done, Ar-Pharazôn waved a hand. “You may leave us.”

The servant bowed and scuttled off, leaving the pitcher of warmed wind close at hand.

“Do you regret your choice?” Ar-Pharazôn asked.

“To surrender? No, I regret naught. It would have been profligate to expend lives when it was clear that your might would prevail.” And with uncertain allies, there had been nothing to be gained by entering a war he had no surety of winning. Now, Khamûl would have more than adequate time to rally his former kinsmen while Angmar ensured a ready supply of troops from the north, and his other ringbearers would work to ensure there would be no problems raising a large enough army to defeat the presumptuous Númenoreans should the need arise. His servants would do his bidding from afar while he worked to snare the king.

He raised a hand and pushed his hair back from his face, exposing his throat, taking care to tilt his head back when he drained the dregs from his goblet. He knew Ar-Pharazôn was fantasising about seeing a steel collar on his throat and that was a weakness he intended to exploit. It was almost time to acquaint his knees with the polished wooden flooring…

“May I serve you more wine, my lord?”

Ar-Pharazôn smiled and held out his goblet. 

Mairon stood, letting the warm clock fall back on the window seat. He lifted the pitcher of wine and refilled the king’s goblet, neglecting his own. He sat down again, twisting one booted foot underneath him in a relaxed pose intended to stretch the fabric of his trousers across his groin. He could see that Ar-Pharazôn was mentally removing each item of clothing and to play to the king’s evident desire, he allowed his cock to harden slightly, just enough to be noticeable.

Ar-Pharazôn took another mouthful of wine, and then passed the goblet to Mairon. The intimacy of drinking from the same vessel created a bond between them, and when he next received the goblet, Mairon closed his hands around the king’s long, blunt-nailed fingers and bent his head to drink, the very epitome of grateful submission. Then he leaned back, looking relaxed, willing his cock to fill further.

The king ran the tip of his tongue around his lips, moistening them. Mairon mirrored the king’s body language, amplifying the man’s desires and reflecting them back tenfold. He could see the effect he was having on his captor, even though the man’s heavy tunic masked any physical signs of his arousal. Despite that, the wide black pupils were a sure sign for those who knew what to look for.

Mairon leaned back against the padded wood and waited for the king to make the next move. 

Ar-Pharazôn continued to drink from the goblet, passing it back to Mairon between mouthfuls, and each time their fingers touched he could feel the king’s arousal mounting. 

When judged by the standards of mortal men, the Númenorean was not unattractive. He was tall and strongly built, with no fat on his body. The honey-coloured hair, cut to just above his shoulders, was silky smooth and framed a handsome face, with high cheekbones and a chiselled jawline. When clad in mortal form, Mairon had frequently indulged himself with both with men and women but he knew that amongst the Númenoreans it was expected that a king would do his duty and sire an heir, no matter his personal preferences, and in that regard, Ar-Pharazôn had not yet risen to the weight of expectation. The marriage was one of dynastic convenience. From what his spies had reported, there was little affection between the king and his queen.

When the goblet lay empty in the king’s hand, Mairon rose smoothly to his feet. “Let me serve you again, my lord.” 

He took the goblet and carried it to the nearby table. Filling it with the remainder of the warm wine, he walked back to the window seat and this time he sank to his knees on the polished wooden floor, knowing fill well what effect that would have on the king. Now was the moment to reel in his catch. He bowed his head and proffered the wine.

Ar-Pharazôn took it from him, then reached out and ran his fingers through Mairon’s dark hair, artfully tousled by the wind on the upper deck. Mairon leaned into the touch rather than away from it, allowing his power to bleed into the link between them, working on building the king’s desire for him. For all the Númenorean’s sharp intellect, he did not have the wit to realise that he was the quarry here and Mairon the hunter.

To his surprise, Ar-Pharazôn had not tried to take him to his bed that first night after his surrender, and he had deliberately put distance between them on the journey to the Númenorean fleet, but now, faced with a long sea voyage, it appeared he would not be quite so abstemious.

The blunt-tipped fingers traced the line of his jaw again. Mairon had cultivated the faintest rasp of stubble, and the king ran the backs of his fingers against his cheek. The choice of form had been a good one and he was quickly learning what slight embellishments played better to his so-called captor’s preferences. When the fingers lightly touched his lips, Mairon was ready, and opened his mouth, taking the fingers in and sucking lightly.

“You tempt me,” Ar-Pharazôn murmured.

So, not entirely oblivious, but the hooks were too deeply embedded in mortal flesh now for the king to resist.

“I would not be so presumptuous, my lord king.”

Ar-Pharazôn laughed. “Do not take me for a fool, Sauron of Mordor.”

Mairon looked up, his eyes guileless and devoid of challenge. “If I had taken you for a fool, I would have offered battle, not surrender.”

Ar-Pharazôn nodded towards the richly-appointed bed on the other side of the room. “Then shall we test the limits of your surrender?”

“If that will serve as evidence of my good faith, Lord of Númenor.” Mairon rose as gracefully as he had knelt and went to stand by the bed.

The king followed him. 

Mairon tugged the linen shirt over his head and dropped it onto the floor, then bent to remove his boots. One fluid movement swept his trousers and undergarments off, to leave him naked before the king. Without waiting for further instruction, he knelt again, his hard cock rising from the nest of dark curls at his groin.

Ar-Pharazôn disrobed quickly, throwing his tunic and shirt at a nearby chair and allowing Mairon to help him off with his boots and slide the trousers and undergarments down his strong thighs. His cock jutted out from the golden curls and without waiting to be bidden, Mairon leaned forward and took it in his mouth, as he ran his hands lightly over the king’s hips. As he swirled his tongue around the swollen head, he drew on his power to drive pleasure in a molten tide through the king’s body, setting every nerve ending on fire.

Ar-Pharazôn gasped and his cock jumped in Mairon’s mouth. He sucked as he had done on the king’s fingers and drew another gasp from him. 

Strong hands fished in Mairon’s hair, holding his head in place as Ar-Pharazôn thrust into his mouth. It seemed the king was not one to take his pleasures subtly. Mairon took him deeply and easily, breathing through his mouth as he allowed the man to fuck his mouth and throat. The act itself held no problems for him, but he had to dampen his irritation at the king’s lack of finesse.

Joined as they were, it was easy for Mairon to gauge the effect he was having on and he knew it would not be long before the man reached climax. Mairon had plenty of tricks available to him to prolong the king’s pleasure, but for now, all he intended to do was whet the man’s appetite and open his eyes to what delights he had yet to experience. He quickly tired of Ar-Pharazôn’s clumsy and one-sided taking of pleasure. It was time to bring this encounter to an end…

He gathered power and sent a sharp spear thrust of sensation though the man’s body, burning in his blood like the rivulets of gold and red lava that ran from the molten heart of the fiery mountain that had birthed his rings of power.

Ar-Pharazôn cried aloud as the fire burned in his blood, singing through his body in a warm rush, driving almost intolerable sensations of pleasure through his body as Mairon held him at the very moment of climax while he counted his heartbeats lazily, knowing that the king had never experienced pleasure like this, so hot, so raw that it skirted the delicious line that led to exquisite pain.

On the count of ten, he released the king’s pleasure and felt the burst of thick fluid into the back of his mouth. Giving no sign of distaste, he swallowed and sucked the man’s now-softening cock as Ar-Pharazôn groaned and fisted his hands in Mairon’s hair and thrust through the tremors racking his body.

Mairon slowly drew back and looked up at the king, his reddened swollen lips quirked into a slight smile. “Do you still doubt my surrender, Lord of Númenor?”

For answer, Ar-Pharazôn gripped Mairon’s hair tightly, seemingly unable to vocalise a response. Mairon steered the man onto the bed before the king’s trembling legs failed to hold him upright. Seeing the arrogant Númenorean land on his kingly arse on the floor would be amusing but wasn’t quite the effect he was seeking at that moment.

Ar-Pharazôn lay on his back like a beached trout, gasping for air. Mairon sat back on his heels and waited for the panting to subside.

Moments later, he was rewarded for his efforts by a loud snore.

A slight smile of amusement on his face, Mairon stood up and pulled his clothing back on. He helped himself to what remained of the once-warm wine, washing Ar-Pharazôn’s taste out of his mouth.

His catch had been successfully reeled in and landed.


End file.
